A War Worth Fighting
by AgeOfDarkness413
Summary: John Watson was well-known a medical doctor. He has a vast knowledge the world of healing. In Afghanistan, that was needed with a great ferocity. Now, insert Sherlock Holmes, who was not only an excellent sniper but a brilliant fighter and genius. John didn't know what he would be getting into when he accepted for Sherlock to be his apprentice, but he would soon find out.
1. Two Patients and an Ambush

**Title**: _A War Worth Fighting_

**Author**: _D.R. Ward_

**Date**: _2-6-14_

**Age**: _14_

**Warnings For This Chapter**: _Mildly graphic bullet removal, lot of gun action. Burn-concealing treatment. Yeah. xD I PULL THE TREATMENTS AND AILMENTS AND BULLET REMOVAL PROCEDURES OUT OF MY IMAGINATIVE ASS. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW IT REALLY HAPPENS. BUT THIS IS HOW I IMAGINE IT TO. _

**Summary**:_ John Watson was known to many as a medical doctor. He has a vast knowledge for that world – the world of healing. In Afghanistan, that was needed with a great ferocity. Now, insert Sherlock Holmes, who was not only an excellent sniper but a brilliant fighter and genius. John didn't know what he would be getting into when he accepted for Sherlock to be his apprentice, but he would soon find out._

* * *

**A\N**:_ Okay, well, here it is. xD There's gonna be a lot of OC soldiers here just for the sake of having them, because, y'know, John doesn't talk much about his friends in the army in BBC Sherlock. xD This story will mostly revolve around Sherlock and John learning how to work together and a whole lot of Afghanistan stuff blah blah blah I know I type a lot. xD Anyway, the only realistic OC in this story will be Brandon Ward, who will be pretty good friends with John and Sherlock. In real life, Brandon's my brother, and I love him to pieces._

_Not to mentions he was a badass wrestler and applied for the National Guard. But yeah, he's awesome. Freaking amazing._

_Other than that, I don't think there's much to know about this story until you read it. xD So, thanks fer stoppin' buy anyhow!_

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A War Worth Fighting

_(Introduction) Chapter One: Two Patients and an Ambush_

~oOo~

_Third Person Omniscient_

* * *

John Watson dropped the lifeless body onto the floor, not bothering to kick the lump of flesh out of the way as he stepped over him. With a small, unconcerned scowl, the blonde moved towards the last two guys advancing on him, eyes shadowed with a calm, cold feeling that would rattle the minds of the toughest men. With the advancement of the men, John quickly slipped to the side while as one man tried to lunge at him, and the soldier managed to grasp the taller figures lower arm and spiraling him off balance and into the wall of his medical station.

The other man lunged at the doctor with a fist already angled for his jaw. John, figuring this both unnecessary and extremely annoying, twirled out of the way so he didn't get hit. The dark, bald, clad-in-black man tumbled to the side with about as much grace as a hippo on steroids.

Basically, the man seemed intoxicated.

Everything peeled out in slow motion. The man that had previously been thrown to the side came at him again, while the other, this time, tumbled into the wall. The blonde turned sideways and inclined his elbow upwards just enough for the man to run clearly into the bone. Blood spurted in the direction of the hit as the man stumbled into unconsciousness. The other attacker slid up the wall with a muttered groan, which John promptly ignored.

Watson interfered with the others blatant moment of blankness as he took a few quick steps over and knocked the man unconscious with his foot curving along a cheekbone in a kick. A satisfying crack resonated through his room.

"I _hate _intruders," John muttered more to himself as he took another few prompt steps to reach for one of his many towels laying around. Absently, he wiped the blood off of his knuckles, getting as much warmth off of his skin possible. "Are you okay?" He asked his patient, who was sitting on the other side of the tent cradling his dislocated arm in on himself and staring, his half burnt face being expressionless.

The patient smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Captain Watson. Remind me to never get on your bad side." The dark-haired male laughed and shook his head affectionately.

"And remember that, Lieutenant Tom. Anyway, as I was saying before, your burns will not heal quickly I'm afraid, but you've dislocated your arm enough times to know the drill, right?" The doctor questioned as he made his way over to the man again, the only thing on his mind being to get the man back on the field as soon as he could, before a new patient arose.

"Yeah. I think you've caused me more pain than the enemy by now, mate." Tom teased with a grin, from which John grinned in reply. It was probably true. The main reason him and Tom had become friends was because of the fact that the man had been in the medical tent more often than not.

Deciding not to further continue this conversation, John opted for moving to the right of left of his propped up patient, his left hand moving to cradle right under Tom's protruding shoulder blade to keep him balanced. The right palm that he owned pressed up against the dark-haired man's extremely muscular shoulder, ready to push back to set the alignment of the dislocated appendage. John could feel the man's muscles tense underneath his firm grip.

"On the –," John said quietly. So he didn't have to count on three, he stopped there abruptly and opted for shoving the appendage back in place. A loud, crackling howl resonated from the doctor's tent, and John couldn't help but feel the goose bumps rise on his skin to the sound.

Peeling away from his friend and underling, Doctor Watson dropped his hands to the side and nodded. "I'll need to coat your skin with mud to keep it moist due to the fact we haven't had our shipment of medical supplies in so long, and I've run out of the necessary treatments."

The Lieutenant nodded in understanding. "Do you know why?" John's friend made small talk as John moved to one of his clean bowls of dirt, next to a smaller bowl of water. A pair of light brown eyes tracked John's movements as the man took ahold of what looked like a blunt log and the corner of the water bowl, pouring the clear substance into the dirt without much care.

Doctor Watson shrugged and lowered the bowl, leaving a good portion of water still in the wooden contraption. While he replied, the shorter figure began to smash, grind, and push the dirt around, slowly turning it into a liquefied dirt. "I'm not entirely sure," John said after a moment, "but I'm aware that we haven't gotten the proper food shipments either. There's a possibility the ailments were interfered with while they were on their way here by the offending group, but unlikely. Either that, or the government just gave up on moving their pawns around."

Tom scoffed, along with John, in disgust. It was no secret that they didn't particularly care for a government that had abandoned them numerous times when they were most needed. British people didn't like getting their hands dirty. While their sections were off getting tortured, the rest of the government was probably sitting down in a group for their evening tea deciding how to make more money for themselves.

Oh, or maybe they spent hard-earned tax dollars on a new tea factory instead of trying to feed the soldiers that are fighting for their country. John wasn't necessarily a soldier, but he had received more than one medal for his show of courage in tough, hard situations. That's technically why he is still considered a Captain of both his soldiers and his medical unit - and that gave him the time to listen to their stories on how hard it was to get by without food while exerting so much sweat and stamina.

It really was a shame. No one particularly cared for the soldiers.

One reason why John loved his job.

"Wouldn't surprise me," Tom replied with a sour tone, "but we're going to run out of preservatives soon. It's bad enough we have a groups of our best trained soldiers out hunting in the woods for a type of animal. Hell, we've even stationed cooks."

John laughed. "Yeah, terrible, isn't it?" The blonde finished up the organic treatment and moved back to stand in front of a fellow soldier. "Angle your head to the left." Tom did so instantly, his non-singed part of his lip curling down as he grunted. John shot him a sympathetic look.

John applied the mud silently, watching as his friend's face slowly relaxed into the wetness that was seeping into his pores. John knew what kind of relief this was like; he had a similar wound to his friend on his right back upper thigh, right under the curve of his bum. No one knew about it but him and the man who had taken care of him, who had passed away in the army and furthermore left John in his place.

The wound still stretched uncomfortably, and John knew that Tom's confidence would decrease drastically with the kind of injury that he had, but he would do his best to keep him going. After all, that's what Doctors did. Sugarcoat the injury while as telling your patient how utterly terrible it was. Always say someone had it worse, because then they didn't feel as bad.

Watson finished applying his quick remedy with record speed. He could hear the gunshots getting closer; there were more people coming. He and Tom needed to be ready to back up an infiltration of the medical tent – which is always one of the first hit areas because of its importance. Putting the now mostly empty bowl down, he stepped back for the Lieutenant to drop off of where he was sitting.

John and Tom got their guns swiftly, making sure that they were in fact loaded. Deeming their finds successful, they nodded to each other, and took opposite sides of the opening flaps of the tent. Now all they had to do was wait.

"By the way, I heard you're getting a soldier who wants to apprentice you. They say we need more medical attention and you need more back-up. If we survive, he'll be shipped here by sunrise tomorrow," Tom informed his friend. John looked at the dark-haired man with a frown.

"I can take perfectly good care of myself," John grunted out, feeling his manliness was just insulted. Tom laughed.

"And none of us doubt it. We're talking about a whole mess of people. Like back in Isthma Base 2, where you almost, y'know, kicked it. If it weren't for Jim you wouldn't be here." Tom explained quietly and John nodded, knowing what the other was talking about.

It was a dreaded experience, Isthma. It was an ambush and almost everyone had died or been captured. John, Jim, Tom, Jeff, Bill and Brandon were the only lucky ones. Brandon especially. John himself had retrieved his best friend from capture. The blonde had treated the male for his multiple torture wounds – none of them imminently seriously but all painful and extremely jolting to his conscious.

Brandon Ward was a five foot seven inch male who, as a teenager, had a difficult time getting in the right crowd. John remembered being the one good friend Brandon had, and the only reason Brandon had enlisted with him was he was afraid to go back to old habits. John loved Brandon like a brother; he would do almost anything for a man.

Right now Brandon was on a temporary leave for his one-month list out. John was happy that he really didn't have to worry about the kid getting shot at on a daily basis, but, y'know, things could still happen at home and stuff.

John shook his head. He would worry about Brandon later. "You know who the soldier is?" John asked conversationally, judging that the soldiers were being pushed back and that the enemy was advancing on them slowly but surely. By now they were only about six-hundred yards away from their tent.

"Guy named Sherlock Holmes. He's an excellent sniper. Total asshole though, from what I've heard. Super genius. He's twenty-six and went to Uni when he was sixteen. People say he's super tall and lanky, but can beat the brawniest of men because he's like, super slick." Tom praised the man. John raised a delicate blonde eyebrow and took a quick look outside, seeing four soldier standing guard.

John nodded to himself and peeked his head back inside, feeling better about the amount of back-up they had. "What, like some sort of high-class ninja?" Watson said, kind of intrigued that the man had gotten inside the forces deployed in his position. Guy must be really good, because John knew first-hand that they frowned upon people that aren't a certain height or body mass.

"Yeah!" Tom exclaimed. The man loved to gossip. From the shout, however, Tom had grunted and hissed from the stretch of pain. John snorted.

"Yeah mate, that's going to hurt for a little while. Best not get too excited." Tom rolled his eyes. He ignored his friend and continued.

"Whatever man. Anyway, some people call him Deadshot, because he never misses. To be honest I still don't know why he'd give up a sniper position to come down here with you – no offense. He's just not that kind of person. Thinks more of himself than he does others."

John grinned. "Look mate, I joined the medical port because it was interesting, not because I wanted to help people. Even if that's the reason why I do it now, it wasn't the initial one. I love my job, and I'm sure he's not completely devoid of emotion."

"Tell that to the people who have talked to him."

"Seriously, listen to Tom, John!" One of the soldiers called from outside. John huffed as he realized the four were probably snooping in on their conversation. "I've met him and his brother, Mycroft. They're both child prodigy's. Seriously thought, mate, Mycroft is like, the head of the British Government and they're both super rich – not to mention Sherlock's obvious talent."

"Deduction, right?" Tom piped in while the soldier spoke to the two of them outside. "I heard he reads everyone he meets."

"Damn right. When I met him he told me my wife was cheating on me because I had two different scents of cologne on me, not because I was sleeping with two women but because she recently changed it to fit the needs of another man. He said he knew I wouldn't because my ring hadn't been taken off in six years, proceeded to tell me I've just been deported out from Temlar because the soul is the richest there, something about the stuff on my boots, and that I was an excellent close combat but pretty bad with guns." The soldier outside explained.

John raised both eyebrows and shared a glance with Tom. Of course, the man had to be making something like that up, because John knew that wasn't physically capable with any man. Being extremely smart himself, a knack for battle plans and vast medical knowledge, he had met a few geniuses in his time. None of them knew how to do that. He was sure this Sherlock couldn't either.

"You've gotta be over-reacting," Tom spoke from inside while he checked his gun again, just to make sure everything was good.

"You've no idea, mate. Wait 'til you meet 'em."

"Well, I won't be able to. Lucky John over here has to deal with him, but I'm being shipped back out by tomorrow." Tom pouted. "It's not like I get any of the fun, anyways. Stupid Major Gillian, he –."

"Incoming!" One of the soldiers shouted from the inside, who had moved to the side. John heard footsteps retreat and with a quick, pointed eye, John saw a grenade get thrown in his tent with a good precision. Keeping himself calm but letting his heart rage inside of him, John quickly moved to gather up the grenade and toss it back.

One step. One second. Four more seconds left. Two seconds were used in the flight of the grenade.

Two steps. Three seconds.

Bending over. One second pass. Two more seconds.

Thrown back out. Last second. John heard the grenade explode mid-air.

Picking up the gun John hadn't know he dropped, he let out a deep breath, and managed to get a peek on the outside. The soldiers that were once standing to attention outside were now fighting, and Tom had uncurled from his sheltered position they were taught to take when there was a grenade. John rolled his eyes and huffed out a sigh.

"Never cease to amaze me," Tom grunted with a look of awe. John sent a glare towards his friend's way. "Seriously – who the hell picks up a grenade? You must be bloody insane."

"Shut up," John groaned. He paused to stick his gun out of the flaps and shoot one of the men that was straddling his comrade and putting a beating on him. He heard a shout of thanks and John peeled back in, out of sight from the intruders. "I just saved your bloody life, Tom. Be grateful. There's six seconds to a grenades release, two of which were in the air. Two steps, bending over. Three seconds. Throw, one second. It exploded mid-air."

"Smartass."

"When am I not?"

"When you're not fighting."

"Blame it on adrenaline."

"Well, you have a pretty good-lookin' –."

"Don't hit on me right now."

"– SA80. Your gun." Tom finished with a cheeky grin, from which John only rolled his eyes.

"Take top." John said quickly when he heard a few more close gunshots going off. Tom, knowing what he meant, nodded, and curved out of the brown tent with his eye trained to shoot. At the first sound of a shot, John crouched under Tom and also stuck himself out to shoot at the opposing force. They hit their marks perfectly, the five men that were heading stealthily towards their tent being pushed back from the force of the shot and falling to the ground.

Tom took right and John took left, quick-scoping the area around them for any more colors that weren't there's. Seeing none, Tom and John pulled back inside with tense shoulders and guns to their chest. "I'll never get tired of this," Tom grinned as he felt the familiar rush of need course through him.

John felt quite the same. He nodded. "Yeah. Don't think we'll be able to go into society anytime soon, though. Imagine the look's we're gonna get." John replied hastily. To be honest, he was scared of going back. Being twenty-nine, he had a good five years left of his immediate contract, and anything after that was up in the air. He only stayed if they needed him. It was a little bit different to be a doctor, so he was pretty sure he would be able to maintain his position – but judging from this Sherlock figure it seemed the man was a genius.

He would probably take John's place. Not that John was opposed to that. He didn't mind – when he trained Sherlock properly he was sure the guy would be better than he was, and he would be able to save more people. It paid to be a sniper in the medical tent because it was more than likely you would defend it by shooting the oncoming invaders, not the invaders that were already crammed down your throat.

Tom, upon hearing some more footsteps on the outside through the mass sound of fray, stuck his own State's originated gun – a sharpshooter rifle – outside to snag the two on-comers out.

"Oi! John, another one coming your way! Med's, now!" A soldier shouted from outside, and John leapt into action. His gun now hanging limply over his chest with the strap holding it there, John hastily made preparations as a man was thrown into his tent. "Bullet wound, right thigh! Quick removal, patch, bind, 'n go!" John nodded at the information.

Tome continued to stay at the door, the good side of his face positioned closest to the flap to be able to see better. His gun continued to stay in his hands properly and John hurried to help the man that was limping over.

"Okay, I need you to sit on that table. Tom and two others are covering us." John spoke rapidly as he gathered the necessary materials.

His hands shot out in random places.

To the left, the fleet of the only set of bandages that weren't contaminated with some sort of thing that would get into the wound.

Set next to the thigh.

The man grunted and tore open the cloth that was covering the wound, and John realized that it wasn't the first time for this man. Good. John nodded. This was good. He didn't have to bother explaining anything then. And the man was even making it easier.

"You know what you're doing. Okay. Good." John muttered to himself.

Second. Gauze. To the right. He set it next to the bandages.

Back-up numbing injection. Already sterilized.

John heard gunshots from the back of him, but he kept himself mainly based on his task at hand. He reached for his scalpel and placed that next to the other two objects, and then for the large, heavy set of blunt tweezers that he uses to get objects out now because the proper equipment was withheld from him.

Without warning John took the needle and jammed it in the area around the wound, not having time to worry about the necessary place to put it. He had done it enough to know that there was no danger to the toxins being injected and that it would only numb the area. Waiting a few seconds as he threw the now-contaminated needle down to the floor, rendering it useless, he reached for the scalpel.

Quick and easy, John twirled the metal device in the right position in his left hand – being left-handed – and moved to bend closer to the man's knee. The numbing medication wouldn't have made its way to the nerves yet, but the numbing wasn't for the removal, it was for getting back out afterwards.

The opening slice took seconds. John put the scalpel back down and picked up the large metal tweezers, before bending back down to get a closer look at the shot wound. His guess was it was in three inches, angled to the left, because the bullet insertion wasn't a perfect shot. Part of the bullet had entered before the rest.

Finding the general area, John spoke. "Use your hand to clench my shoulder, and _don't _scream."

"Not like I w-_would._" The man grunted out as John inserted the point of the tweezers into the bloody flesh. On a better day he would have cleaned the wound properly, but they had no time for such things.

More shots rang out from behind him. Tom again.

"Blood hell." The man muttered as he gripped on John's shoulder tightly. John grunted in pain himself as he squeezed his eyes close together, narrowing them just enough to pinpoint a piece of metal protruding from the battered and torn flesh. The doctor dug around for a second or two more before the tweezers latched on the needed assessment. "Pulling out." John stated, not bothering to think of how dirty that sounded.

The bullet took another few seconds to dislodge form the skin. The soldier grunted again, his jaw tense and his teeth gritting, but John hurriedly pulled the object form the flesh. A relieved sigh was heard as he dropped the bullet inside a nearby metal platter.

"Okay. Disinfectant." John muttered as he took three quick steps to his bag, which was riddled with miscellaneous drugs and ailments and common elixirs. He jolted the back around a few moments before he found what he was looking for. The bottle he found was a good 90% alcohol, which would burn the skin severely but it would get rid of all the signs of infection.

"Hold on again." He told his patient as he unscrewed the cap. This time the man held on tighter, probably knowing this was going to be the most painful.

The liquid was dropped on him and the man grunted loudly, but still refrained from screaming. His whole leg jolted and hammered with pain, twitching annoyingly, but John held it down, feeling sympathetic. He knew what that felt like, and it certainly wasn't good. Sometimes he really hated his job. Causing pain to heal.

But still.

John ran to his left quickly to gather one of his many sets of prepared and laced needles, ready to tie up the man's wound. John came back and stitched it together in record time, his hands flying over and pulling the clear string and inserting the needle in the positions needed.

When he was done he tied the knot.

"Can you wrap yourself up?" John asked quickly as he put the needle with the other things that would need to be disinfected.

"Yes, Doc. I'm good. Back up Tom."

Does everyone know Tom?

"Alright."

John took his gun and proceeded to stand to the left of the opening, where Tom was already out shooting. He took the same position as before, under the dark-haired man standing, and shot at the hip and middle-regions of the few intruders left.

Tom nailed a few to John's left and John a few to Tom's right, the enemies dropping like flies. More grenades were thrown, but none near them, and they had to watch out of the corner of their eyes as some of their friends were blown to pieces. Knowing this was simply what happened in war, they didn't flinch. It happened all the time.

They wouldn't forget them though. Really. They wouldn't.

John focused his gaze on the remaining thirty men who were occasionally shooting and being shot at. John nailed three more with his gun, which was still wrapped around his chest, and Tom two more.

"Okay, I think the rest can handle them," Tom finally sighed out as he listening to the continuing gunshots. John nodded and pulled back, glancing at the man who was finishing up his impressive wrappings.

"You good?" John asked his patient, who he had now finally gotten a good look at. The danger was amiss and now he had a lot more time to think like a normal guy. The first thing he say was the dust of sandy blonde hair, much like his own, that was cut in the classic military fashion that all of them were trimmed to. The next was the light grey eyes, which he briefly looked at. The man was tall and wide-set, like many soldiers here were.

"Jace. Jace Emerson. Yeah, I'm good. Record time there, too." The soldier praised with a grin, from which John returned.

"At least you didn't scream and draw attention to yourself."

"Been there, done that. Gets everyone in worse situations."

"Don't I know it. Well, that's Tom Bekkit, and I'm –,"

"Three-Continents-Watson. Trust me, I know. Nice t'meetcha, John. I was originally supposed to be here tomorrow morning, bringing a new apprentice of yours, but we were brought into action by the ambush. Sherlock won't be able to get here until morning still, but he knows I'm here and where we are." The soldier informed John, who simply nodded.

"Alright. Nothing too strenuous on the leg – even though that's impossible to tell to a soldier – and go back to your tent. We're going to need to get some repairs done."

"Yes, sir. I will check tomorrow to see that Sherlock had arrived safe. Other than that, thank you, Captain. And nice shooting, Tom." Jace praised with a grin, and Tom shook his head with a similar one of his own. Men and their ego. John rolled his eyes and wiped the blood off of him from a towel nearby.

"'Til sunrise, Soldier."

"Yes, sir!"

Jace had left the medical center with a grin and hopefully a new friend, leaving John and Tom to fix their mess in the med's center and furthermore pass out for their few hours of sleep. John briefly wondered what this Sherlock would be like when he met him, but he decided not to dwell too much on it. After all, he would meet him in a bit.

Tom passed out because he was too tired. John rolled his eyes. Guy must've skimped on sleep again.

Great, another kid to take care of.

Little did John know, he had no idea what taking care of a kid would be like.

Well, until he met Sherlock.

* * *

OKAI. Well. I usually keep my chapters at around 3k words when I write them, but as an intro I might as well make it a bit longer. Super lot of action in this one, and the action will slowly regress and progress within the next ten or so chapters, before it gets really hot and heavy. Anyway, this was the first chapter of my new Johnlock Afghanistan station fic.

I hope by the end of this fic John and Sherlock will be in 221B, retired, and all that shaz. John and Sherlock will eventually fight crime in 221B, but I think I'll end it up there.

But for now, this is the main point of the whole shindig.

I really hoped you like and didn't think this chapter was super boring because of all the non-Johnlock action. xD There won't be any for a bit, but they'll get to know each other and all.

Please read and review! X3 I would appreciate it greatly!


	2. Upon Arrival

**Warnings For This Chapter: **Uh, mild language, I guess. Definitely nothing explicit or remotely bad yet. xD

**A/N:** And chapter two is in the midst. I know I should probably be working on Dear John, or my new Johnlock called "Danse Macabre" to get it uploaded, but I was honestly in the mood to write off some anger. xD So here it is, and I hope it isn't too bad! (In all honesty, I should probably be studying for my History test that everyone's re-taking because they failed…god damned explorers. But I won't. Because I'm that irresponsible.)

* * *

A War Worth Fighting

_Chapter Two: Upon Arrival _

~oOo~

_Third Person POV_

* * *

By the time morning rose up in the rocky desert, John had already up and disinfected all of what he had left to work with. His tools came in short supply so it didn't appear strange for him to handle them with extreme care. What little objects they had had been distributed throughout the ranks of doctors and nurses – him being the Captain, he had distributed everything properly – and that gave them an easier range to heal.

John was grateful they hadn't had any attacks overnight. He was a man who had trouble sleeping already, so when what little sleep he got was disturbed by raging bombers and firing guns, he wasn't exactly the sweetest to be around. Many would agree with this assumption.

Shockingly, though, John had gotten a little over four hours of sleep before waking up. Truth be told he was a little timid about the man people kept referring to as Sherlock Holmes. Soldiers loved to talk. That much was blatantly obvious. Truth was both a rarity and an extremity as well; they loved to make their stories a lot more intense than they actually were. Whenever they were hitting up against El Qaeda with the American Troops, they would always share stories about their raids and their infiltrations like they were distinct medals in the mind.

John would rather not think of them.

The blonde yawned and cracked his neck, not bothering to groan as his uncomfortable sun burn ticked at his skin. He would think about all that later.

After a few minutes of perpetual silence and happy humming, John heard the beginnings of everyone getting woken up. The first round of – well, technically human alarm clocks – started at the east side of the tents and gradually made their way west, most people waking up with the loud shouting already. John fought back a smile and decided to hop out of his tent before they got to him. Grabbing his gun, the blonde got up and un-zipped the large, tan tarp, stepping out into the large mass of sunlight.

"Oh, bloody hell," John muttered as he squinted, pupils having to extract and retract to get used to the amount of brightness. He quick-scoped the area around him, a habit that he had gotten way too used to, and made his way to the morning rations.

On his way he met up with Tom, who was speaking to one of his buddies. Catching eye on John, he said a quick goodbye to the stereotypical tall, buff blonde, and made his way to John's side. "Hey, Johnny, you ready for the big day?" the dark-haired tease spoke with obvious precision that made the Captain roll his eyes.

"You think I'm worrying about it that bad?" John absently watched the soldiers in front of them puff up dust as they walked to the ration tent, much like he and Tom were doing.

Tommy shook his head and cocked it to the side, his grin still cocked in place. "You should be. He's seriously tough to handle." His friend warned him. John rolled his eyes. He would definitely be the judge of that. Not his friends.

"Oh, piss off. I'm sure I'll find out for myself in an hour or so."

Tom snorted but shook his head instead. "Your funeral."

John rolled his eyes.

~oOo~

After the daily ration was served and John ate as much of the nasty paste as he could, he retired back to his tent. The injured were being shipped to the medical tent down by the east bay for now, because there weren't that many injured that haven't been treated yet.

This gave John a chance to sit down and think.

The list of what he had been told about Sherlock Holmes goes as follows:

1. His subordinates name was Sherlock Holmes. Obviously.

2. He was a genius.

3. He has the tendency to be a pompous asshole.

4. He deduces upon sight.

5. He cared more about the science of medical training rather than the saving people part.

6. He's tall and weird-looking. (John didn't get much more of a description.)

7. He was a soldier being transferred by his own will.

That was just about it. From the looks of it, Sherlock was weird. Really weird. But John liked weird. There wasn't anything wrong with weird. Weird and strange people stuck out from the crowd of normal ones – it gave a flash of colour to the otherwise deathly normal society. Or, as some would say, weird people gave a strange excitement to those who had boring or iridescent lives, and John couldn't help but feel that he was slowly becoming that type of person.

John knew he had to be weary of the man he was supposed to meet, however. It seemed to him that there was some truth to what his friends were saying – rumors didn't just start from nothing, after all. They had to derive some something.

Captain Watson frowned and drew his eyebrows together. Sherlock was due to arrive within fifteen minutes by now; he could show up at any moment for all he knew. That thought made John, albeit reluctantly, a little afraid of what he might see or notice – Sherlock would surely deduce him, and what if he didn't like what he saw? What if he deduced something terrible about John and proceeded to get him revoked from his position?

Not that he had done anything like that – but it didn't mean he didn't subconsciously feel a little bit guilty.

Shaking his head to rid himself of these useless thoughts, John decided to check to see if all of his needles were sterilized. Of course he had made sure to sterilize them all at the wee hours of the morning, but he was also tired and could have missed a couple. Un-sterilized needles meant infected patients, and some infections were quite easily able to kill. John wouldn't have a death from his mistake on his hands.

Rising from his position on the floor, the doctor moved back to his plastic drawers and retrieve his supplies. John got the appliances he needed and sat back down exactly where he had before – on his dusty roll-out that was only a bit more comfortable than the rocky sand – and opened the clear plastic case from which his needles and sanitizing wipes were kept.

John busied himself with that for a good six minutes, simply basking in the sounds around him for the moment. There were no guns, no shootings, no bombs or screams, and that was quite rare for a day like today. Not that he was complaining. It was just strange for this to happen.

The Captain continued to clean his needles for another second or two before he head a few murmurings outside his tent. Turning his head nonchalantly, he hears the zipper open with practiced ease, which lead the doctor to stiffen. So Sherlock Holmes was here.

"Hey, Cap. I've come to deliver you your new subordinate!" Peter Knox, a well-known member of the British government's private regiment spoke with ease, having worked with John for a good year before moving out. They didn't know each other alarmingly well, but John recognized the guy as someone he liked.

"Hello Pete. How are you?" Watson smiled as he saw Peter slip into the tent.

"Just fine. And yourself?" The redhead replied and questioned.

"Fine." John stated with a smile. Just then, another voice erupted as a body walked through the opening behind Pete.

"Not fine. Obviously you've been stressing about our meeting because you've already sterilized those needles at least twice and are in no need of doing such again, judging from the slight discoloration on your thumbs and forefingers, along with the scabbed over prick that should be healed within the hour. From your position it seems you have already been informed of me and my skill, so I assume I don't need to introduce myself or even attempt to be nice for such reasons. I am here for deductive reasoning and cannot handle someone without at least a hindrance of attentiveness to them, so do not bore me and do not pretend to like me because you must work with me. It's sickening."

The voice had suddenly listed off into the silence, and John made sure to pay attention to every word that was said. As the man had finished, John's eyes were blown and his eyebrows shot to his forehead, mouth dropped in a small 'o' of surprise. "That's…" The silence wrapped around his word and John had to force out the next one to not sound like a complete idiot. "Wow. That was…amazing," the captain answered, replaying the words that were already said at least three times in his head.

The deduction was a simple one, but extremely impressive itself. To think that Sherlock could see his pricked finger from two to three yards away was shocking – the discoloration on his fingers was a plus. So, Sherlock knew what he was talking about already. It would be quite easy to teach, and possibly learn, from Holmes himself.

"Pardon?" That same sarcastic, commanding voice that he had heard softened slightly with surprise, and John couldn't do anything but release a half-assed shrug.

"Sorry," John apologized while as shaking his head, "I'm sure you hear that often. It's just amazing to hear something like that for the first time." Captain Watson responded easily, awe still seeping into his tone. He noticed, as he stared at the dark-haired figure that had righted himself and loomed next to the short red-head, that Sherlock's eyes had narrowed.

"One brother. Harry. You have three letters sitting next to your spread therefore that hints at a torn relationship – had you been extremely close you would have known what to say as soon as you were writing. Perhaps it's because you left for the army, perhaps not. His name is on the front," Sherlock listed, not even breaking gaze from the shorter blonde, "Your parents are either dead or out of the picture, you've no girlfriend, or you would have obviously written them first. So, him. You struggle for dominance being only average height against people in the army who are at least six to seven inches taller than you, but you've still managed to become a Captain of both your medical squad and your own troop. Therefore you are an excellent marksman, leader, and doctor. That's decent,"

Sherlock cocked his head and narrowed his eyes further, continuing. "You are a very private man. You have friends but most are decent, probably only one or two within the radius of your barracks that you don't refer to them by their rank and instead name. Pete is an acquaintance, not friend, because he still refers to you by rank and not by your name. You've been wounded severely at least two times in battle; however you are a proud man and raise your chin whenever threatened. You did so when Pete walked in, immediately asserting your dominance. Not badly, just overlooked. Perhaps you weren't popular as a child, perhaps you were bullied. Could be either."

Peter looked automatically afraid by this deduction, worried about what John might do to the man who was speaking to him. John, if possible, dropped his chin even more during this speech about his deductive reasoning, and finally he knew what all the hype was about. If he wasn't too shocked, John might have been a little disgruntled, but at the moment he didn't particularly care that his private life was laid out in front of someone he barely knew because what he had just heard was_ amazing_.

"Woah," John commented weakly, setting his needles down next to him. John stood. "Utterly brilliant. Now I understand what the hype was about." John commented. He smiled then, a grin that said he would look forward to the man in front of him. "That was…that was wonderful."

Sherlock, for the second time today, looked what appeared to be akin to shock. "Really?" He asked, almost like a child would ask his father if his picture was good, and the father, although lying, would have said yes. Skeptical, really.

John furrowed a brow in confusion and nodded. "Yes, it was. Why, is something wrong?" He glanced at Peter, who was also staring at him like he grew another head.

"No, it's just…." Sherlock drifted as he shifted his feet, his lanky body moving in sync with the shift. "That's not what people usually say." Peter nodded along with Sherlock. The Captain grunted as he put his hands in his army pockets, absently twisting a loose strand of cloth there.

"What do people usually say?" John asked. Sherlock held the fainted of a smile as he answered.

"Piss off."

The two of them share a grin, and John realized right then they would get along just fine. Peter, however, glanced between the two like they were both insane, before shaking his head. "Alright, well, I'll leave you two to get acquainted. It was nice seeing you, John." Peter said. John shot a 'likewise' to the man as he left the tent, leaving just the two of them standing in a fairly small place.

After a second or so of silence, Sherlock up the conversation once more. "So, did I get anything wrong?" The young man asked the shorter blonde, who grinned and sat back down in his previous position. Sherlock remained standing.

Figuring Sherlock needed a reply, John did just that. "It was a brilliant deduction," John started, picking up his set of needles once more. He threw the dirty cloth aside and decided to place his needles neatly where they once were, "Though Harry is short for Harriet."

All was silent for a few seconds, even the outside, before Sherlock snapped and plopped on the ground next to John, leaving a bunch of dust to come up and hit the Captain in the face. John mumbled something incoherently in mild annoyance, but Sherlock didn't hear because he was in the process of pouting. "_Sister! _Eugh, it's always something," The younger man stated as if he had done something terribly wrong.

John rolled his eyes. "For what it's worth, it was a perfectly accurate deduction otherwise. And anyone would have believed, if seen, that 'Harry' was my brother." John offered with a small, re-assuring smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes like a child. "Ah, dear John, but this is where you are wrong. I am not _anyone." _Sherlock stated boldly, obviously thinking quite high of himself. John should probably feel appalled, but the only thing he could do at the moment was smile goofily. So this Sherlock was interesting after all.

"That you are not," John said more to himself than Sherlock. The curly-haired soldier frowned as he heard it, though, and did what he did best – investigated it.

"Do you mind elaborating?" Holmes asked as John leaned over and opened the drawer that held his needles, sliding the compact plastic back in its respective place. John hummed and turned back towards Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

"Can't you deduce it?" Captain Watson teased.

Sherlock guffawed. "I can't read minds." He had stated as if it were apparent. John rolled his eyes.

"Could've fooled me," John commented, before answering Sherlock, "I simply mean you're different. Everyone here, including me, looks almost the same – we act the same, talk the same, so a lot of things the same way. It's refreshing seeing someone different in the midst of war." John smiled, leaning back and crossing his legs Indian-style.

Sherlock and he shared a calm, understanding smile. "Very true." Sherlock commented, not looking in the least upset with his words. John nodded.

The blonde grew serious as he brought up a new topic of conversation. "Now, before we get started – I want to lay down some ground rules. I could care less what you call me behind closed doors – as long as it isn't Smalls – but when people are around I need to be addressed with Captain. Whether it be Captain John, Captain John Watson, Captain Watson, or just Captain, means no difference to me. I expect you to at least listen to my opinion and if you prove me wrong – which I have a feeling you will do so a lot – that's perfectly fine because I'm learning just as you are. I've heard you are more adept to corpses and cadavers, which is a lot different than a live body,"

John drew in a breath as he continued. "So please listen to what I have to say because I have more time under my belt than you in that bit. You will not be able to work on a live man or woman until I say so; until then you will simply watch me and only on dire circumstances will you work on a live person. Other than that, fights are obviously not permitted when I'm around – with our own, of course – because that will go on my record as well as yours and you will be punished fairly for it."

As John finished what he was saying, Sherlock let out a tilted nod "I can live with that. However, if someone begins a fight with me, I will not tolerate it." The taller man warned the shorter, who nodded in retaliation.

"If I am close, I want you to let me handle it. It keeps you out of trouble and I can make him suffer a lot more than you would when it comes to rank. So, is that established?" John asked, feeling as if the conversation went a lot better than it would with someone else speaking to Sherlock.

The crystal-blue eyed man nodded solemnly. "Clearly."

John nodded as he heard Sherlock readily agree to his terms. "Well, since you know most everything about me, do you mind sharing some facts about yourself?" John asked boldly. He watched a mired of emotions cross Sherlock's face, and just then, he couldn't help but realize how attractive the man was.

Sherlock had some weird air about him that didn't scream 'soldier' whatsoever. Briefly John wondered why in the hell the man was on the battlefield in the first place, but he had to remind himself that it was because Sherlock was still an excellent fighter and gunmen as well. A few minutes prior John had only been focused on what Sherlock was saying, and not what he looked like – but now he had a full view of what he would be working with for the months to come.

Sherlock's hair, eyes, and cheekbones were probably the first things one would notice about him. His hair was a fit of dark-brown, messy, dirty curls that if clean, would probably appear a lot more appealing than they already had. Still, his hair framed his long, taint face quite easily and shockingly perfectly. His cheekbones almost tore through his face they were so sharp, like one could cut themselves from just touching him. Other than that, his eyes contrasted against his hair and skin with the deepest, crystal image of blue that John had ever seen on a man.

John wondered if they were contacts, they were so beautiful.

The rest of his body was lanky but toned. John could clearly see skinny but a muscled expanse of legs, which could be anything from a skaters to a dancer. His arms were just as lanky but perfectly formed with the rest of his body, strangely keen with his stature.

The last thing John noticed were Sherlock's fully, expressive bow lips that were quirked down in a constant frown. They were also strangely alluring, not that he would ever admit that aloud, and John couldn't help but stare at them a few moments.

"I am a very private man, John." Sherlock answered the blonde quickly.

John quirked an eyebrow and grinned. "So am I. It's the least you can do, considering you know enough about me." He rebutted easily, watching as Sherlock registered that he was told off by another person in the room. It was quite amusing for John – he found that he liked teasing the brunette soldier.

"Fair enough," Sherlock gruffly stated. "As you already know, I am Sherlock Holmes, active deducer. My brother sent me here because if not, I would be in jail for identity fraud and murder of a man – which, in my regards, was self-defense because there was a gun to my head – and I don't hold humans high in my thoughts. Quite frankly, they repulse me. I do a lot of experiments on chemicals and cadavers, and I am a high-functioning sociopath, _not _a psychopath."

John nodded at this, as if it were every day information to take in. He had seen all sorts. Just because Sherlock was a sociopath and a murderer, didn't mean he was bad, obviously. They murdered in war all the time. It was a causality. "See, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" John smiled and shook his head.

Sherlock raised a bushy dark eyebrow and regarded John with shock. "You do realize I wasn't kidding, I hope?" He asked.

John laughed and nodded. "Of course. Even I know the difference between sarcasm and truth."

Sherlock paused for a moment, before nodding, almost unsure. John could tell Sherlock's mind was racing, and, still grinning, John continued. "And no, I'm not insane, and I don't have anything emotionally or socially wrong with me."

"Uh-huh." Sherlock answered, unsure. "You're sitting in the same tent as a murderer who just told you he was a sociopath, and you didn't even blink. That certainly says something, John." Sherlock deduced quickly, John almost not noticing the uneasy look on his face. Rolling his eyes, John answered.

"We are all murderers here, Sherlock. Or do you think killing the man on the opposing side isn't murder?" John tested Sherlock, who thought about this for a moment. After a second or so, the soldier nodded, as if agreeing with John on his assessment.

"I believe I will be able to tolerate working for you, John." Sherlock stated fondly.

John held his grin and held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. "And I you. Welcome to the team, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock replied as he shook the blonde's hand firmly.

_This was the start of a beautifully messed up friendship, _John thought absently, as he slipped into another easy conversation with his new recruit. _A beautifully messed up friendship, indeed. _


End file.
